


A Schitt's Creek Begorrah

by Siria



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: In which David has some very strong opinions about St. Patrick's Day.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 19
Kudos: 198





	A Schitt's Creek Begorrah

“Look,” David said, folding his arms, “not even the fact that it shares a last name with a true icon of mid-century American glamour can make Kelly green anything other than a misbegotten nightmare of a hue. It goes with nothing except shitty beer and STDs acquired during ill-advised hook-ups in the smelly back room of a bar in a Chicago suburb. It certainly does _not_ go with a tasteful stone and sand aesthetic which has been carefully calibrated to provide soothing biofeedback to our discerning clientele.”

“It’s almost like you’ve got an opinion about this,” Patrick said dryly.

“Yes!” David said. “A correct one! Which means none of those… things… will be for sale in our store.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick lifted up a handful of lurid green beads and then let them tumble back into the box in a clatter of cheap plastic. “Lots of people around here are Irish, I bet if we put these next to the mints, we could do a two-for-one offer—”

“We—” David stopped. The careful furrow of Patrick’s brow was giving him cause for concern. “You got those things just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

“Toora loorah,” Patrick said. To anyone who didn’t know him well, he would still have looked serious—grave, even—but David had a finely-honed sense for when his boyfriend was about two seconds away from snickering at him.

“Ugh,” David said.

Patrick was openly laughing now, looking very pleased with himself. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” David said again, with feeling.

“Compromise, David,” Patrick said with wide eyes, because David only ever fell in love with people who were terrible.

“Yeah, well, joke’s on you,” David said, flapping a hand at the cardboard box. “Because you’re the one who’s got to figure out what to do with a whole box of bright green beads, not me.”

“Oh, I already know what I’m going to do with them,” Patrick said, and it was so gross, the way David had developed a kind of Pavlovian response to that specific tone of Patrick’s voice. It was low and earnest and associated with some very vivid memories of David stretched, shuddering, across Patrick’s bed. David felt heat prickle along the back of his neck and was suddenly very aware of the fact that it was broad daylight, anyone could see them through the store windows, and these pants were tight enough that a _response_ would definitely be visible.

“Uh huh,” David said, getting a bit flustered about the fact that he could feel himself getting flustered. “You mean to say, that’s, you’re implying a sex thing, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know, David.” Patrick picked up a single strand of beads, pulling them slowly and deliberately through the crooked fingers of his left hand before placing one end between his teeth, like a weird, green, limp version of a tango dancer’s rose. He waggled his eyebrows. “Am I?”

“Oh, my god,” David said, pressing the heel of one hand against his chest.

“I mean, I’m not,” Patrick said, letting the beads drop from his mouth. “Because I honestly don’t even know what I’d do with them. Although anal beads are a thing, right?”

David shook his head violently. “I should never, ever have told you about—”

“But even if these _were_ the right kind of material, I don’t think they’d be big enough to be worth it. Let’s face it, your fingers have kind of ruined me for anything else,” Patrick said, in a matter-of-fact kind of way that made David’s soul just flat-out leave his body for at least two seconds. 

“Or maybe I could just use them for display purposes,” Patrick continued, making a show of tapping a finger against his chin as if David weren't having an aneurysm a foot away from him. “Tie a bow on, uh, certain things. I hear they call that an Irish Welcome.”

“Okay, so pretty much the entirety of my knowledge of Ireland is based on a threesome I had with some Riverdance backing dancers on that one trip to Hong Kong? But I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”

Patrick put the stand of beads back into the box and took a step closer to David, and David, much as he was trying to remain resilient in the face of Patrick’s teasing, couldn’t stop himself from resting his hands on Patrick’s shoulders. Every day it got more difficult for David to remember what it had been like before he’d had Patrick’s warm solidity to depend on.

“David,” Patrick said, looking up at him with those big brown eyes.

“Patrick,” David said, squeezing his eyes shut because ugh, unfair.

“Just picture it." Patrick's voice was gentle, enticing. "The two of us, naked, pressed together. A bunch of shamrock tucked behind my ear. The erotic slide of the Kelly-green beads between our bodies...”

“Ugh,” David said, shaking his head. “No, no, nuh uh. This is the most distasteful erection I’ve ever had. Haven’t the poor Irish suffered enough?”

“But it’s St Patrick’s Day,” Patrick said earnestly, “and I’m a whole one-eighth Irish and my name _is_ Patrick, so if I’m in favour of it, can it really be wrong?”

David opened his eyes and stared into Patrick’s own. “I’m going to say this with all sincerity: quite probably, yes.”

“So that’s not a no.”

“You are terrible, and I do not know why I put up with you,” David said.

“Pretty sure it’s because you’re in love with me,” Patrick said, wrapping his arms around David’s waist.

“Oh, well, there is that,” David said, letting himself sway closer.

“Because I’m in love with you,” Patrick said softly. “A whole lot.”

“See, this you can keep talking about,” David said, fighting back a foolish grin. “This is not beads, I approve of this.”

“Whatever you say, David,” Patrick said, but instead of saying anything else he leaned the rest of the way in and kissed David: slow and thorough and infinitely careful, in a way that made tears prickle suddenly in the corners of David’s eyes. And David didn’t need to be any bit Irish at all to feel lucky, lucky, lucky.


End file.
